


i were giant-sized

by iodhadh



Series: out of the dust; into the dark [7]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Background Zevran/Male Warden, Fereldan Succession, Gen, Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-10-02 14:25:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10220240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iodhadh/pseuds/iodhadh
Summary: With Orzammar behind him, Drust would have hoped he was done dealing with succession crises. No such luck, apparently. Fortunately, there's a better option for the Fereldan throne than the choice he had to make between Bhelen and Harrowmont—but he's not looking forward to convincing Alistair of that.





	

**Author's Note:**

> It's been approximately a million years since I posted any Drustfic! So, I guess, enjoy my Warden OC, new subscribers? (Do I even have any new subscribers?)
> 
> This one is a sort of companion to [no caste in blood](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4247043), my Orzammar succession fic, but it's not required reading. The title is from Dave Matthews Band's _If I Had It All_.
> 
> As ever, some of the dialogue is lifted from in-game conversations, but this one goes reasonably off-script too.

The first thing Drust did, after he and Alistair had made their successful escape from Denerim’s most fortified prison and found their way back to Eamon’s estate, was find all of his companions and their host to reassure everyone that they were safe. The second thing, following immediately on the heels of the first, was get dragged into a headache-inducing political discussion with Eamon and Anora. The third involved Zevran, the temporary requisition of a bathtub, and a very decisively locked bedroom door.

Would that it could have been the last for the day.

Unfortunately, as had already been amply demonstrated, politics would not wait. And so Drust dragged himself away from the warmth of his lover’s embrace, put on clean clothes, combed his beard, and brushed and rebraided his hair. Then he went down the halls of Eamon’s guest wing, and knocked on the Queen’s door.

Erlina pulled it open a moment later, and he nodded to her. She flashed him a brief smile, ushered him into the room, and gently closed the door behind him before taking up her customary place at the Queen’s shoulder.

Anora was seated on the sofa in her sitting area, hands folded demurely in her lap and skirt arranged artfully around her. She did not look surprised to see him.

“Hello again, Warden,” she said, rising elegantly at his approach. “It is good that you came to speak with me.” She extended a hand to him, palm down. After a moment of blank confusion, Drust took it, bowing over it in imitation of the dance he had seen played out by nobles.

Either his form passed muster or, more likely, Anora was too polite—too aware of the advantages of his position—to comment. She reseated herself and gestured to the chair across from her, but Drust shook his head. “I prefer to remain standing, your majesty,” he said. The chairs were sized to human bodies and he had the feeling this would be a difficult conversation. He had more power in his bearing on his feet, and this way he and Anora were eye to eye.

“As you wish,” Anora said. From the way she sized him up, she had guessed at his reasons, but her own poise didn’t falter. “I will be blunt,” she said. “I can see that your voice will be a strong one in days to come. It is to you whom Eamon listens, and with good reason. My father must be stopped, but once that is done Ferelden will need a ruler. I would welcome your support for my throne.”

Blunt, indeed—but plain speech was fine by Drust. It was a welcome change, after Orzammar, after all of Loghain’s politic insinuations. “I’m certain you would,” he agreed, his voice neutral. “Let’s talk, then. Why should I support you?”

Anora seemed just as grateful as he was to dispense with the fluff of diplomacy. “For years I have ruled this kingdom as Cailan’s queen,” she said. “As much as they loved Cailan, all of the Bannorn knew this to be so. Cailan was a good man. But what is needed now is not another good man, but a good ruler.” She smoothed her skirts down, on the faintest tremor of her hands betraying that she spoke of her dead husband; it didn’t show in her voice. “I sent Erlina here not solely because I thought I needed help, but because I saw an opportunity—for the both of us. I will need your support, Warden. And you will need mine.”

Drust gave her a long look. “Will I?”

“Yes,” Anora said, her voice tight. “You will. My father is a hero and a respected general. You will need every possible ally to triumph at the Landsmeet.”

Drust tipped his head in acknowledgement of the point. “You’re proposing an alliance, then.”

“That is exactly what I am proposing,” Anora confirmed. “When the time comes, you support my bid in the Landsmeet to remain on the throne. You will be seen as my father’s enemy, yet you will be allied with his daughter. The nobles will feel you are supporting the interests of Ferelden as opposed to solely those of the Grey Wardens. In return, I add my voice to yours. Do you see? Together we do what alone we cannot.”

Privately Drust had his doubts about what he could or couldn’t accomplish without the Queen’s help, but he had other reasons to get her on his side. “You think you’re a better candidate than Alistair?”

Anora made a delicate noise that in a less noble woman might have been described as a snort. “Do you disagree?” she said. “You are a fellow Grey Warden. Tell me, then: what do you think of Alistair’s potential to rule, never mind his willingness?”

 _Not much_ , Drust thought, but out loud he said, “Being a good ruler requires more than ambition.”

Anora deflected the barb with the grace of a born politician. “Alistair seems like a kind, well-meaning man, and certainly biddable enough. These are admirable qualities, if not kingly ones. He also seems to be a fine Grey Warden—which is exactly why he should remain one, and serve the kingdom by defeating the darkspawn.”

That was, unfortunately, an accurate summary of Alistair’s most notable qualities. “And just how do you know so much about him?” Drust said. “You certainly haven’t been travelling with him for the last year.”

Anora lifted one shoulder in a dainty shrug. “Cailan knew of Alistair. It was Arl Eamon who kept him from the courts, as Maric had desired.” She shook her head. “There are some who would follow Alistair out of respect for the Theirin bloodline. Others would see it as Eamon grabbing for power. Who else do you think Alistair would turn to for help?” she added, raising an arch eyebrow.

That possibility had occurred to Drust, so it was no surprise that Anora would spot it. Drust tipped his head again: another point well made.

“What I’m saying is,” Anora continued, “Alistair assuming the throne would not guarantee the end of civil war. And if this continues, eventually the nobility could return to the old days of constant warring with each other.” Her voice softened, and she dropped her gaze momentarily to her hands, folded in her lap. “Alistair’s weakness would destroy everything Maric built.”

Drust was impressed—it was artfully done, and there was enough truth mixed into her assessment that the exaggeration was plausible. But he had learned the language of politics in ruthless Orzammar, and all casteless knew how nobles played the crowd. And besides, he had a different angle.

“You don’t seem to like Alistair very much,” he said.

For a brief moment Anora looked startled; then she sighed. “My feelings towards Alistair have nothing to do with it,” she said. “I barely know the man. I simply believe that I am what this country needs. I will fight for what I believe. Would he do the same?”

 _Yes, absolutely_ , Drust thought, but that wouldn’t help him here: what Alistair wanted was to stay far from the throne.

“What say you, then?” Anora said, when it became apparent that he wasn’t going to answer. “Your support for mine in the Landsmeet?”

“I think we can likely work something out,” Drust said. He shifted his weight and clasped his hands at his back, knowing that Anora’s eyes would be drawn to the subtle flex of his shoulders. “There are, however, other concerns. What happens to Loghain if you are queen?”

Anora went quiet at that—a reflective silence, mirrored in the sombre expression on her face. “He _is_ my father,” she said at last, resigned, “as well as a great general who has served his nation well, up till now. If there is a way for him to live, I would prefer it.”

If there was a way—but how could there be a way? After everything Loghain had done, after killing Cailan and the Wardens and _Duncan_ , after throwing Ferelden into civil war and steadily chipping away at their strength against the darkspawn—Drust wasn’t sure he could face the man without asking for his execution, when it came down to it. Certainly Alistair wouldn’t let his crimes pass. It was all very well to believe in mercy, in second chances, but what did you do when someone went too far?

He sighed.

“If there is a way, I wouldn’t oppose it,” he said. “That’s all I can say. It’s possible that even that will be more than I can grant.”

Some of the tension went out of Anora’s shoulders, but she looked no less resigned. “All the same, I am glad to hear it,” she said. “In the end it will be up to the Landsmeet to decide, I think.” She straightened then, visibly bringing herself back to the matter at hand. “Does that affect your decision? Can we yet come to an arrangement?”

Now, that was the question. Drust steeled himself: it was now or never. “You’ve made me your proposition. Now let me make mine,” he said. “Marry Alistair.”

Behind the Queen, Erlina made a startled noise, swiftly controlled, but Anora was looking at him with new consideration. “Go on,” she said slowly.

“You’ll keep your throne,” Drust said, “and those who would follow Alistair for the Theirin bloodline will have no reason to oust you. You’ve been the steward of Maric’s kingdom thus far. That shouldn’t have to change.”

For a long moment the Queen was silent.

“You have reservations,” Drust said.

“Of course I do,” Anora said, but her voice wasn’t bitter: she was merely stating facts. “Ignoring that the man looks so much like Cailan—my recently deceased husband, if you’ll recall—my main fear is that he might govern like Cailan as well.” She shook her head. “But it is true that Alistair has Theirin blood. To some, that is more important even than practical considerations. A union might be considered a compromise, but… is this something Alistair even desires?”

 _Definitely not_ , Drust adamantly didn’t say. “I think I could convince him.”

Anora nodded thoughtfully, chewing on her lip as she came to some resolve. “Very well, then. Let me say this: if Alistair is willing to stand back and allow me to continue governing the nation, then I would be willing to have him as my king,” she said. “It is my understanding that governing does not appeal to him anyhow. If that is so, this is a compromise I can live with.”

Drust suppressed a shout of elation. “I will speak to him, then,” he said.

“Do so,” Anora said. “I will be interested to hear what he has to say.”

She rose, once again extending her hand, and Drust bowed over it no more artfully than he had the first time. “Your majesty.”

Alistair was not going to like this.

  


* * *

  


He found Alistair in Eamon’s study, holed up in the little library nook that seemed to be the one place in the estate, besides the kitchen, that he was most comfortable in. Eamon himself had retired, thankfully: Drust wasn’t looking forward to this conversation, and it would have been even worse with an audience.

“Evening,” Alistair said, waving him over. Drust joined him, dragging over a second chair and dropping into it with a relieved sigh.

Alistair had a plate on the table next to him, with the remains of what looked like a meat pie and a hunk of cheese on it, and Drust was reminded that he hadn’t had anything to eat since lunch. He groaned, dragging his hand over his eyes. “It’s been a long day.”

“Tell me about it,” Alistair said. He looked much better than he had this morning, now that he’d had a chance to wash and rest, but Drust could see the weariness around the edges of his smile. If anything, that just made him feel worse about the conversation they were about to have, but politics—again, still, always—wouldn’t wait.

“So,” Alistair said, trying for a grin, “I’m guessing someone told Anora I was planning to steal her throne. She has a nasty glare. Has anyone told her this wasn’t my idea?” he added, plaintively, with the air of a man who had already given in to the inevitable. “I think she’s a great queen. As far as I’m concerned, she’s welcome to it.”

“She knows what she’s doing, I’ll certainly grant you that,” Drust said. “But… I don’t know. Great rulers don’t always make _good_ rulers. I lived in Orzammar long enough to learn that.” He scrubbed at his face, then dropped his hand into his lap. “I don’t trust nobles, and I don’t know if I can trust her not to just be putting herself first.”

“You may be right,” Alistair said, subdued. “This whole situation is such a mess, isn’t it?”

Drust laughed. “You can say that again.”

They lapsed into silence for a minute, Alistair fiddling with the carving on his chair, and Drust reflected on how easy it was to talk to him—even when they were tense and the subject of their discussion was uncomfortable for them both. What would it be like, he wondered, to have a king he could trust?

“What do you think I should do?” Alistair said at last. “Go ahead and be king? Just… let it happen?”

Drust hesitated in opening his mouth, feeling compelled to warn him. “You’re not going to like it.”

“Oh, no,” Alistair said instantly. “What did you do? You did something, didn’t you? Alright, spit it out, I’m prepared for the worst.”

Drust let out a long, slow breath, then said, “I think you should marry Anora.”

For a long moment Alistair just gaped at him. “Nope, I was wrong, I wasn’t ready,” he said. “Marry her? As in marriage? As in be her husband? Maker’s breath. You’ve spoken to her about this?”

Drust didn’t say anything, but his answer was written all over his face. Alistair groaned, putting his head in his hands. “You did, didn’t you? Why would you do that? Did you take a blow to the head? That’s crazy!”

For once, Drust had to agree with one of Alistair’s exaggerations. It was absurd. Alistair was his friend, had never wanted the kingship, and now Drust was prepared to push all that aside—and for what? Because he couldn’t stomach the idea of letting an ambitious ruler take the throne alone? It was beyond belief. There was still a part of him that couldn’t fathom how he had even come up with the idea, let alone suggested it.

But then another part of him remembered Bhelen’s cruel smile, and his blood ran cold.

“I think,” he said, “this conversation would be a lot easier on both of us with a drink.”

“Maker, please,” Alistair said, muffled into his hands.

Drust got to his feet, crossing the room to the sideboard Eamon kept behind his desk. He located the glasses in short order, and dug around inelegantly until he found a bottle of something golden-brown that looked and smelled passable. He had no idea how much you were meant to put in these glasses—nobles had rules for _everything_ —but he doubted Alistair would care, so he filled two glasses halfway and brought them back over to the corner. As expected, Alistair took his and downed a gulp without even looking at it. Drust supposed the coughing fit that prompted at least gave him something else to focus on.

Thus fortified, the apparent future king of Ferelden set his glass down and leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “Alright. I’m ready. What the hell were you thinking?”

Drust took a slow sip of his drink, lowering his glass and turning it in both hands as he watched the light play over the liquid. “Back in Orzammar,” he began, “no one had anything good to say of Bhelen. You must have wondered why I backed him.”

“Because of your sister, I thought.”

“Yes and no,” Drust said. “I’d do anything for my sister, you know that, but if I thought Bhelen would destroy Orzammar?” He shook his head. “I could live with her hating me. But that’s the thing, isn’t it? It’s not just about her. It’s about _us_. The casteless.”

“To be honest, I didn’t really understand the whole caste thing,” Alistair said. “So it’s… really significant, that she’s casteless?”

“You know how much of a stink Eamon keeps making about Anora being common-born? The casteless aren’t even _people_.”

Alistair let out a low whistle. “And Bhelen’s heir has a casteless mother.”

“Exactly,” Drust said. “But it’s not just that, either. It’s…” He sighed, taking another sip of his drink. “Harrowmont is a traditionalist. And I don’t know if you would have noticed, but his man, Forender—do you remember when he tracked me down? He looked right through me. I can’t imagine how much it must have hurt his pride to even speak to a casteless, let alone ask me for help.”

Alistair was silent for a moment, shifting in his seat, then said, “Not that this isn’t a fascinating insight into dwarven politics and all, but… what does this have to do with me and Anora?”

“I’ve got people on all sides pushing me to back one of you or the other,” Drust said. “There are political considerations. Traditions. Lineage, experience, training… it’s all a mess. But look at who I’m being asked to decide between.”

“Go on…,” Alistair said uncertainly.

“In Orzammar they asked me to choose between a murderer and a bigot,” Drust said, “and, ancestors save me, I chose the murderer. He may have killed his family—I don’t know. I’d believe it. But how many more would Harrowmont kill, just by thinking our lives weren’t worth saving? There was no good choice there. There was just what I thought I could live with.

“But now I’m being asked to choose between a good man who doesn’t know how to rule, and a good queen I don’t know I can trust. And if I can see a way out of that choice, if I could find some way to give Ferelden a trustworthy ruler with a good heart _and_ the political experience to back it up… shouldn’t I take it?”

Alistair didn’t say anything. Drust looked down, letting his eyes settle on his glass once more, and lifted it to his mouth to drain it. When he set it down, the gentle click sounded unreasonably loud in the silence of the study.

At last Alistair let out a groan, dragging his hand across his eyes. “You really have a gift for that, you know? You can make the most demented plan sound completely reasonable. Maker. I hate to admit it, but it makes sense.”

“Oh, good,” Drust said, “I was worried I’d gone through all of that for nothing.”

Alistair laughed, but it sounded a bit strangled. “And I suppose the Landsmeet will like it, too. They’re big on compromise.”

“It probably is the most certain way to end the civil war,” Drust agreed. “It has all the benefits of both sides and there’s no legitimate reason anyone could argue against it. I just… have to throw you to the wolves to make it happen.”

“You don’t need to make it sound so much like a death sentence.”

“Alistair,” Drust said, stilling him with a touch to his arm. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. That I even asked this of you.”

For a moment it looked like Alistair was going to turn his apology into another joke, but then his shoulders slumped. “Don’t be,” he said. “I knew I couldn’t avoid it forever. At least it’s for a good cause, I guess.”

“At least there’s that,” Drust said.

Alistair sighed. “Go ahead, then. Tell her I’ll do it, if it comes to that.” He picked up his glass, draining it in one long pull and pulling a grimace. “Now excuse me while I go have a small heart attack somewhere. No big deal, right?”

“Yeah,” Drust said. “It’s getting late anyway. We can worry about what comes next in the morning.”

He bid Alistair goodnight and made his way to the kitchen, where he begged leftovers from a disgruntled cook. He cajoled her into a better mood as he ate and washed his own plate, then made his way back through the estate in silence. He didn’t think he would ever stop feeling out of place in these noble halls.

Zevran was already in bed when Drust returned to their room, and it was with a grateful sigh that he shucked off his clothes and went to join him. Zevran half-woke as he climbed into bed, turning towards him and tucking his face into Drust’s shoulder with a little hum. “You’re tense,” he said.

“I know,” Drust said. “I hate politics.”

“That’s what assassins are for,” Zevran mumbled.

Drust laughed softly, carding his fingers through Zevran’s hair. “I don’t think assassins will solve this particular problem, sweetheart, but thanks for the offer.”

“What can I say? I like to be helpful,” Zevran said. “Go to sleep, amante. Politics will still be there in the morning.”

“Yeah,” Drust said. “That’s what I’m worried about.”

There was no reply. Zevran had already fallen back asleep. Drust pressed a fond kiss to his forehead and settled down himself, resolving to put it out of his mind.

Zevran was right. It would undoubtedly get worse, but he could worry about that tomorrow.


End file.
